You have no idea how much I have missed writing. Not only the writing process itself, but even just having the time and psychic space necessary to sit with myself long enough for it all to pour out and come together. Right now I am sitting in on Rachel’s violin lesson with my laptop, which I brought with me so I could attempt to keep up with my work correspondence. Even though the icons in the lower right hand corner of my screen are telling me I am connected to some local wireless internet source (a mysterious wasteland to me at best), I cannot pull up my browser, and my email refuses to either send or receive. Flexible person that I am, I seized the opportunity to write instead of fighting with the cyber void.

From my seat on this second-hand couch in this classroom/youth lounge in the church where Rachel has her lessons, and later tonight, in a larger room, her weekly youth orchestra rehearsal, I am privy to a quintessential winter scene outside. There is still plenty of snow on the ground from Saturday night’s storm. The clouds are high but beginning to thicken, and looming with a darkness that foretells of the next wave, due around midnight. Even so, there is a wan slice of late afternoon sunlight breaking through the clouds just above the horizon, from behind the branches of the large neighborhood tree, my view of which is perfectly framed by the edges of the window, a striking arboreal silhouette. I find this kind of picture to be one of the richest gifts of this stark and frigid time of year – how many shades of white, blue, and grey can there possibly be? I would never find this palette satisfying during any other season, but these few minutes have been like a visual feast.

In this calm before the storm, I submit to the admittance that this has not been an easy year. On top of the fact that my family is negotiating the bulky and uncomfortable transition of letting go of one adored offspring, and I am walking my own musical labyrinth toward I know not what, I have taken on one year-long working assignment that is siphoning too much out of me and failing to satisfy me. In my typical fashion, I have been battling with, instead of listening to, my twice-weekly inner experience of engaging in this project. Every week, as I approach Monday and then again Friday, my step lags and I feel a sinking sensation in my stomach. I think they call it dread.

I have never thought of myself as an optimist. I do not tend to look on the brighter side of things, except when faced with someone who is looking at the decidedly darker end of the continuum, in which case I usually feel called upon to find the more luminous lining. Yet, amazingly, I find myself doggedly showing up, week after week, dragging along the frail yet stubborn hope that I may suddenly stumble into some kind of love affair with this work. In my more desperate moments I have sworn that after I wrap this up in June I will walk away from it forever. Yet two weeks ago, when I had to indicate my plans for next year, I found myself unable to make it final on paper. “Surely we can make this work!” some inner voice sings (or is it whining?) in my ear.

As I write this, I can see the theme that is crying out for my attention. How many times in my life have I forced myself to do something because my intellect judges it to be good and I am capable of carrying it out, ignoring all the while a tiny voice inside me that is saying, “But. I. don’t. like. this.” Bully that I am with myself, I have driven myself straight into many a situation without it even dawning on me to hold an inner committee meeting first. Even once it becomes clear that we’re not looking at what you would call a good fit, my self-appointed internal judge and jury has usually insisted, tyrannically, on saying yes to the next offer, and again to the next. “C’mon!” the court-cheerleader is stridently urging my square self, “Keep it up! You’ll nestle into this round hole soon!”

Warning: Please brace yourself for what may seem like an about-face. In all honesty, I am actually very glad I accepted this position. And, in my own defense, I did confer with myself, heart to heart (okay, I know I only have one heart, but you know what I mean), before agreeing to it way back in August. I admit, I only had about one week to decide, because it was offered to me on short notice, so it was a rush job. But the truth is that I could never have known what it was going to be like without just doing it. And if I had said no and moved into autumn the way I had been planning, I know I would have been annoyed with myself, many times over, for not having been willing to try it. I have no doubt of that, knowing myself as I do.

What’s more, I’m good at it – certainly not stellar, since, after all, I am a novice at it, and I have made plenty of mistakes along the way – but in general people are happy with the job I’m doing. And even I can see the results, and they’re good! My co-workers seem to accept me as one of them, and I by no means have a corner on the market when it comes to my complaints about the challenges that are part of the package. In fact, my colleagues are bending over backwards to help me, so I feel very supported, and those that have come to observe me have complimented me, saying I’m doing a good job. It’s hard but it’s not bad. There is a difference. So what’s the problem?

I had a rabbi who once said to me, “The content is not the issue.” Truer words have rarely been spoken! As much as it always seems that it is these particular circumstances, whatever they are, that are causing the problem, it is always my view of and reaction to them at the heart of the matter. I could list for you the details that continue to make my work difficult, but that is not what is at issue here.

Regardless of the fact that Dan and I are now paying for our FAFSA-determined share of college tuition and we are happy to have the added income, that my learning curve is greatly enhanced by this new venture and I am grateful to have been given the opportunity to grow from it professionally, that I am doing something good and that is a pleasant feather in my cap, and that it is possible it could grow into something even greater over time; regardless of all that is good about it, it is simply not where I want to be putting my energy.

You probably don’t know that I used to be a bookkeeper. It was before the computer age, so I would have to go through a considerable updating process to return to that line of work, but I could do it. I am a perfectionist (NO! you are exclaiming, in shock. I know. But I digress.) so I was a darn good bookkeeper, accounting for every penny, and it always came out right at the end of the week. I could do it again, but that is not where I want to be putting my energy either.

Okay, this is where I am cringing inside. The battering voice rises up, and I will share it with you. Who-the-hell-are-you, it rumbles, that-you-get-to-be-so-discriminating? Other-people-would-be-grateful-for-a-job-like-this.

Well, I am grateful. And I want to move in a different direction, even if (and here’s where I feel defenseless against the voice-with-hyphens) I don’t know exactly which, yet. I love writing this blog and would like to try my hand at writing something bigger than a blog. I gave up a career in folk music years ago, but would like to take my music into new venues and new rooms and begin to create a meaningful connection with new listeners. I have for years wanted to bring the arts into the corporate domain to nurture the hearts and right brains of people whose left brains are very effective, to see what could be cultivated. You should see the pile of books I continue to check out from the library on paper and fiber arts – I am itching to get my hands on color and texture and see what I can do! I completed the first round of training a couple years ago to teach people how to improve their visual acuity through relaxation and good ocular habits, and found I loved working one on one with clients, something else I would like to expand upon.

And here’s the thing that came to me as I wrote the above. Yes, I’m busy – too busy – right now. Yes, I have too many pans in the fire. And yes, that’s an old and familiar pair of shoes. (Not to mention the obvious fact that I could add many more pans. Or shoes. I’m not sure which metaphor I’m carrying here.) And, probably like most people, I don’t always love everything I have (over-) committed to. But that is not the issue. As true as it is, and as much as I have repeated that history, it is still just a deeper layer of the content.

What lies even deeper than that is the fact that I know what I need to do and I keep resisting it because my mind thinks it knows better. But how can I allow my mind to rule on its own, without tapping into my heart and intuition? Surely creativity and wisdom spring from something more than mere intellect. Six weeks from tomorrow I will turn 57. My father’s father took up oil painting in his 50s and died in his 60s. What am I waiting for?

What am I waiting for?

Permission.

From whom?

I am finishing this writing a day later. The snow came upon us last night with gusto, with a whipping wind and such cold that the dry white drifts squeaked under our boots and tires today. That serene and achingly spare glimpse of winter beauty that bequeathed itself to me lasted but a few moments and then yielded to sunset, which yielded to darkness lit by a clear crescent moon, which yielded to more clouds, which emptied themselves upon us in a fury, all through the rest of the night and most of this day. Not one of them asked for permission from anywhere, neither the clouds nor the moon, neither the sun nor the tree. Each played its part with both grace and passion. And acceptance, that divine gift of nature. Thank you, God, for helping me pay attention and for making me teachable.